


Roses

by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly rough fight, Enjolras decides to try and make it up to his boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small little drabble I wrote for a friend for her birthday!

When Grantaire hears a knock on his door, he has half a mind to ignore it. He’s ten shots deep into a bottle of whiskey, and has stopped using the shot glass for measure because honestly, there’s no one around to judge him harshly and he doesn’t feel like reminding himself of just how far he’s fallen from heaven and his ultimate goal.

There are harsh words in this world, and then there’s Enjolras. Handsome, fresh faced Enjolras whose tongue carves words from gold, whose voice is like summer and who treads so lightly one might think he’s a dancer rather than an ordinary man. But allow storm clouds to clutter that perfect brain of his, and you’ve called upon the wrath of Zeus himself, for mighty Apollo wields words of war, shoots arrows of lightning that light fire to one’s world and sends timbers crashing and crumbling whether they fear him or not.

Grantaire knows only because he is subjugated to this wrath multiple times a week. He knows because he nurses burns only whiskey can cure, and he’s punctured with holes from his Apollo’s mighty arrows. He’s been slain multiple times in his god’s presence, but it seems as if these sacrifices of flesh will never be enough. For no matter what he does, Enjolras will always return to that harsh, callous self that has only one objective: Take down the enemy. And too many times the enemy is his Pylades, and the man who loves him so graciously is left wounded and bruised to pick up his own pieces.

And he’s sick of picking up those pieces. He’s tired of feeling degraded and humiliated, and he’s tired of giving and giving until he has nothing left to give. He’s been sucked dry by his Apollo, depleted all of his resources and completely emptied his cache of resources. He’s hurt in ways he never wants to admit, and worst of all he’s broken.

The knocking persists, and Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut as he gulps down more of the whisky, willing it all away. He’s not a bad man, not by any standards. Cynicism and a harsh disbelief in humanity doesn’t make you inherently evil. So why, he has to ask, is he subjugated to such torturous words? Is receiving Enjolras’s affections occasionally worth the harsh words that cut him down at other times? He’s always so unsure. But then he sees him, he feels the heat radiating off of Enjolras’s skin, stands in the way of that man’s sunlight, and he can’t say no. Because he’s a fool and a slave, tormented and twisted as it is, and he will never be able to live without Enjolras. That man was like a drug Grantaire would never be able to give up.

And he was ok with that, for the most part. But things had to change.

Upon hearing a third and very loud knock Grantaire stands and wobbles slightly on his feet. The alcohol has caused the world around him to rush and spin, and he realizes exactly how much he’s had now. He approaches the door with a bottle in hand, expecting to see Jehan or maybe Courfeyrac, because they heard the explosion, they watched as Enjolras tore him down and refused to build him back up, and Jehan is always so sweet about checking in on him. He really ought to be more thankful for having a friend like Jehan, because the poet was honestly the closest he’s ever had to —

 

His heart halts as he tugs open the apartment door and immediately his shields go up. He feels himself tense, his muscles stiffening at the memories that hit him like a brick wall because Enjolras is standing in front of him, looking innocent and sweet, as if he’s done no wrong. But this time he’s not going to get forgiven. This time things will be different because Grantaire knows that while he might be low, he’s not the scum of the earth and he deserves to be treated as more than that.

“What?” he blurts out as he takes another long sip of whisky, something that makes Enjolras shift uncomfortably. His hands are behind his back and he looks utterly angelic with his blonde curls loosely braided but falling from their hold. He’s still in Grantaire’s baggy sweater that he’d nicked earlier that morning when he left for classes, before The Incident but after The Sex, and Grantaire hates the way that he likes it. In fact, it turns him on a bit, gets him hot to see his boyfriend wearing his clothes. Because on some levels Grantaire is possessive; he wants everyone to know the slight blond with the sharp cheekbones and coy grin is his and no one else’s.

In his head he can hear Enjolras scolding him for trying to possess another human. And his head doesn’t care.

“I owe you an apology, Grantaire.” Enjolras’s blue eyes are wide and innocent, as if he doesn’t understand. And he probably doesn’t, Grantaire reasons with himself. Because Enjolras can always justify his actions. He can always say there was a reason for his harsh words, a reason why he broke the man he loves into shards of glass with simple words. And while words will never make it up to Grantaire, they had always seemed enough in Enjolras’s eyes.

“Your words mean little to me,” Grantaire murmurs, his voice thick and full of the emotions he longs to spit forth. He wants to be angry, wants to scream and shout and convey the emotions he’s feeling. But instead he does what he always does: he bottles it up and hides it away, because it’s easier that way. He uses his sarcastically bitter tone, the one he’s used to using around Enjolras to get a raise from him. “You’ve hurt me deeply, but I know this means little to you,” he said harshly. Their gaze meets then, and for once Grantaire believes that Apollo might sincerely feel his apology into the core of his being. His eyes are wide and sad, with a deepness that seems to touch down into his soul, and Grantaire knows now, why Enjolras has such a way with the masses of people, why followers flock to him to listen to his voice and soak in his words.

Because he is a god, in his own literal sense, whose graces are good and whose blessings are sought out. And maybe he doesn’t have temples erected to worship his holy figure, but Grantaire would go to the ends of the earth to see it done, if that was what it took. Because his faith in Enjolras was always restored, no matter how severe the consequences.

 

And it isn’t because he’s Enjolras’s slave, nor is it because he only seeks to please the man. Grantaire genuinely holds faith in the golden god who has traipsed into his life. He’s become blessed because of this man, in ways he never expected to be.

“You don’t deserve the heartache I’ve caused you, Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers through full lips, parched with words for once in his life. He can’t convey just how apologetic he is, just how badly he yearns to run his fingers along the contours of Grantaire’s body to make it up to him. He wants to learn each curve and catch, to memorize every sentence of his being, to soak Grantaire up utterly and completely. And he knows his harshness must stop if this is to be.

 

Finally Enjolras shows his hands, and between the two he’s holding a large bouquet of resplendent red roses that seem to thrive if only because they are held by the celestial touch of a god. “For you. Because words will never be enough.” Enjolras holds the flowers out as if they are a peace offering, as if they say everything he couldn’t. And in that moment Grantaire practically melts, because a small gesture like this is more than a thousand of Enjolras’s gilded words can convey. “I’ll go now. If you want to, you can —” he is cut off by familiar lips pressing into his, because this is more than Enjolras had ever done. Everyone knows Enjolras doesn’t waste time with petty things such as flowers (“For they die and my love does not”) but he’s done it anyways, and that is worth more than any fight or poem or lyric could ever be. Because roses are the flower of love, and never has such a splendid thing seemed more fitting.


End file.
